A chef, on the back of enduring a tumultuous evening shift, is walking towards the end of a poorly lit tunnel that leads up to an elevator to the tracks. He wants to get home, brush off the stress and think about the menu for tomorrow. The moment he reaches the elevator, the door is already wide open and a lanky, tall old man occupies the interior predominantly. He seems to be covered in hay and is standing next to a heavy jute bag, one leg tucked to the side as if it were a bag of gold under immediate threat. He must be a farmer, in all probability, from right across the blue hill, which was the nearest farm town. They have the odd habit of covering themselves up in hay to beat the winters.